Some of my dog walking buddies and I were shooting the shit down at the park. As we talked our dogs did their Anarchist dog thing; there is an order to what they do, there is an order to everything, but I am not too sure what it is. One of the guys was telling us about his hunting trip. Guys love hunting stories so none of us noticed a woman sneak up behind us. "There aren't any bags in the box. Do any of you happen to have one?" she asked us.
She wanted poopie bags. We all reached into a pocket to pull out rumpled plastic bags. The woman pursed her lips and took a deep breath before she really got going. "Every time my girl comes here to play there is dog shit, dog shit, dog shit. What is it with you people? You wouldn't like it if I came over to your house and shit on your fucking lawn!" She was pointing all over the place and fangs began to peek out of her pursed lips. That's right lady, I thought, it's a motherfucking dog shit universe. If the bitch had used pouty lips instead of pursed ones we would have scattered all over the park in search of every last speck of shit to please her. If we had not all had plastic bags she would have felt like Superman catching bad guys.
All of us clean up after our dogs. The park would be knee deep in crap if we did not. "We all clean up after our dogs lady," Eddie protested. "Don't lay your shit on us. We got wives for that." We all murmured agreement but not too loudly. We all know too well you do not want to piss off a woman. Ask Argentina.
"And you're wrong lady," I told her. "I live seven doors down from the corner on the right, big old black Cadillac in the drive. You can come over and shit on my lawn any fucking time you want."